


Londonium

by littleblackfox



Series: The Thrice Damned Fic [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: A Demon Tour of London, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-23 14:12:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7466421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackfox/pseuds/littleblackfox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"These places remember, Steve".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Londonium

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eidheann](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eidheann/gifts).



> A Missing scence from Bukavac: chapter 6 (The Howling Commandos)  
> Written for the ever-fabulous Eidheann, who I'll be taking on her own tour of London soon.
> 
> With buckets of love, my dear friend

The King Charles 1 was Falsworth’s idea, a cosy, wood panelled pub a short stumble from Kings Cross. The newly formed Howling Commandos are clustered around one of the heavy, dark wood tables making an enthusiastic attempt to drink London dry.  
Bukavac huddles at a table in the corner, not drinking the glass of whisky in front of him.  
He aches. He has ached since Italy, though it has been a several days since Steve found him strapped to a table in that thrice cursed Hydra base and torn the bindings and silver chains off him with something between rage and terror in his eyes.  
His skin itches from where copper wires had been forced into his flesh. His throat sore from the engraved metal strip that Steve had eased off his throat, tears dripping onto the scars and burns on his body and calling him every name under the sun.  
There is a burning sensation in the crook of his left arm, the hollow of his throat, the base of his spine. Something cold and metal lodged under the skin that he cannot scratch away.  
He rubs his eyes and suppresses a shiver, glancing over at the Howlies and their vulgar songs. He watches Steve sitting with them, bright and golden and shining like the sun.

He fucked up. Steve has forgiven him but he fucked up. Tried to fix what was broken in the kid and took it too far, and now there is corruption in him. It’s not taken a hold, not yet, but it’s in there, bleeding through his soul. And maybe tomorrow they’ll be hit by a doodlebug and Steve Rogers will be a damp red mist and the bits that aren’t red and wet will wade through the endless ocean and blue horizon, find a white sand beach and put his back to the sea. Maybe he will be okay.  
But maybe something else will happen, maybe he’ll get pushed too far and his blood will turn. Either way he can’t take back what has been done, but if something happens to him, and the itching under his skin is like a fucking siren because something bad always happens, he’ll not leave the kid without some kind of backup. 

There is movement across the room and he glances up to see Steve walking over to him, tankard of beer in his hand. He pulls out a chair and sits down next to Bukavac, setting his beer down on the table.  
“Hey Captain,” Bukavac says with a grin.  
Steve shakes his head and takes a sip of beer.  
“Captain, Buck? Seriously?”  
Bucky shrugs and shifts forward, restless in his own skin.  
“Wasn’t me,” he nods his head to the rest of the group. “They in?”  
Steve nods and glances at him.  
“You okay?” he asks quietly.  
He nods, though Steve doesn’t look convinced, his eyebrows pulled together in concern.  
Bukavac stares at the signs and framed pictures lining the walls. Advertisements for London Gin and images of Tower Bridge. He grins suddenly, and he knows what to do. He grabs his glass and downs his whisky.  
“C’mon, Stevie,” he says, getting to his feet. “I’ll give you the tour”.  
Steve doesn’t argue, just gets up, leaving his beer on the table untouched. Bukavac slaps him on the back.  
“Bucky, we can’t. There’s a Blackout. ARP wardens will have our hides if we go out there”.  
Bukavac waves a hand dismissively. “They won’t see us”.  
Steve looks ready to argue, but falters when he sees Bucky smiling at him and mutters an agreement. Bukavac throws an arm around his shoulders and leads him to the door, calling goodnight to the rest of the team.

The sun is low in the sky as they walk along Wharfdale road, skirting around Kings Cross train station, Bukavacs arm still tightly around his shoulder. Steve wraps an arm around hiss waist and allows himself to be led along the road between King's Cross and St Pancras. They stop at a cluster of tenement buildings, their walls black with soot. Bukavac raises the arm that isn’t wrapped around Steve.  
“This is Battle Bridge, where the Iceni queen Boudica fought and died,” Bukavac says softly. “A damn fine woman, a good queen. When the Romans raped her and her daughters,” he glances at Steve who flinches at the words, “She burned the city to the ground and slaughtered the Legio nona Hispana”. Bukavac’s expression hardens. “That kind of thing leaves a mark, Steve. A stain of ash in London's veins”.  
He glances over at him, tries to impress the importance of his words.  
“These places remember, Steve”.  
Steve nods, his brow furrowed. Bukavac gives him a gentle shake and leads him along Battle Bridge road, pausing at the entrance to St Pancras.  
“I want you to meet an old friend of mine,” he says with a smile.  
Steve nods and mutters ‘sure’, looking around the empty street. Bukavac clears his throat.  
“Steve, this is London,” he glances around. “London, this is Stevie, keep an eye on him for me”.  
Steve snorts and pulls away from him. He’s about to make a sarcastic comment when he hears a soft voice with a nasally hint thrum in the air around them.  
_Hullo li’le rat. Nice to meecha Stevie ___  
Steve freezes. Bucky laughs and slaps him on the back.  
“London and I go a way back,” he says.  
_Since the fackin’ Romans ___  
Bukavac gives Steve a little shake.  
“Courtesy, Stevie,” he says gently. Steve blinks and nods.  
“I’m sorry, yes, it’s nice to meet you London,” he stutters.  
Bukavac rest his hand in the small of Steve’s back and starts walking them down Euston road towards Shoreditch.  
“You mentioned,” Steve hesitates. “You mentioned working for the Romans before. Was it here?”  
Bukavac snorts. “Work you get paid for. Demons are slaves,” Steve winces and Bukavac gives him a reassuring pat. “But yeah, I worked here, Europe too, though they’re always changing the damn borders so no idea where”.  
He leads them to a public garden with paved footpaths and benches.  
“It wasn’t all bad. I had a couple of good Masters here and there”.  
They walk along the footpath and across a well maintained lawn to a large tree.  
“This is one of them,” he says with a soft smile. “Mad old fucker, but I liked him”.  
Steve rests his chin on Bukavac’s shoulder.  
“What happened to him?” he asks softly.  
“Lived to seventy I think. Was an artist. Died in his bed drawing a portrait of his wife”.  
Steve presses a smile to his shoulder.  
“Were you there?”  
“Yeah. Made sure it didn’t hurt,” Bukavac smiles to himself. “Bastard wouldn’t stop singing though”.  
Steve huffs a quiet laugh and looks down at the well cared for lawn.  
“Pleasure to meet you, sir,” he says quietly.  
Bukavac murmurs something under his breath in a language Steve doesn’t recognise, and turns away, leading Steve back to the footpath.  
“How come there’s no grave?’ he asks, falling into step beside the Demon.  
“There was. This used to be a graveyard,” he waves a hand around them. “Filled up in the 1850’s so they turned it into a park. It was that or housing,” he says with a shrug.  
Steve looks aghast and Bukavac rolls his eyes.  
“The living are piled on top of the dead, Steve. That’s just the way it is”.  
He reaches over and snags him by the sleeve and gives it a sharp tug.  
“Come on, stop dwelling on your own mortality,” he says with a smirk.  
They walk back the way they came and Bukavac points to a gravestone.  
“They kept it!” he nudges Steve. “There it is. Nowhere near him or the missus”.  
Bukavac keeps walking while Steve heads over to the headstone and reads the carved inscription. He lets out a yell and straightens up.  
“William Blake?” he shouts after Bukavac. “Bucky, are you kidding me? William Blake?!”  
Bukavac laughs and turns around to face him, still walking, if clumsily, backwards.  
“You heard of him,” he says all wide eyed innocence.  
“Dammit, Bucky!” Steve shouts, running after him.  
They walk along Beech street past Barbican, Steve filled with questions about Blake that Bukavac does his best to answer.  
“So how did you end up with him?” Steve asks finally.  
“I was a gift, from one of his admirers,” Bucky scoffs. “Wrapped up in a fuckin’ bow with a binding around my neck”.  
Steve halts, his mouth a flat line. Bukavac can see the Hydra base in his eyes, the silver chains and leather cords and strips of silver and gold. He pushes into his personal space and wraps his arms around the dumb punk. Steve presses his face to his shoulder and hugs him back. He rubs a soothing line across Steve’s shoulders and murmurs reassurances into his skin.  
“He was so fuckin’ furious,” he says softly into Steve’s short blond hair. “You shoulda heard him”.  
“He still kept you,” Steve mutters against his collar.  
“Yeah, well. A Demon can only have one Master at a time,” he says, and the skin at his throat burns. “So as long as I was his, I wasn’t anyone else's”.  
His skin aches. Cold metal under the surface.  
“He let me come and go as I pleased. Said it was an honour to speak with me,” Bukavac presses a smile against his scalp. “Called me his friend”.  
Steve loosens his grip and straightens up. Bukavac let's go, a little reluctantly.  
“I’m glad, Buck. I’m glad he was your friend,” he says quietly.  
Bukavac grabs the cuff of his jacket and tugs.  
“C’mon, Stevie, lots to see,” he says with a grin.

__They pass Temple and walk down to the Victoria Embankment, the grand stone walkway lined with globe lanterns, unlit in the darkening sky alongside the river Thames.  
Bukavac points to a red granite obelisk in sight of Waterloo Bridge.  
“They call it ‘Cleopatra’s Needle’ but it was actually Thutmose who had it built,” he glances over at Steve. “Close your eyes, what do you feel?”  
Steve frowns at him, but shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath. Bukavac watches a muscle in his jaw twitch, and he recoils suddenly, eyes flying open. Bukavac grabs him by the shoulders and holds him steady while he gasps for breath, his face pale.  
“Shh, it’s okay,” he murmurs, moving his hands and rubbing soothing circles in the small of his back.  
“What the hell was that?” Steve whispers.  
“A curse, an old one” Bukavac replies. “You see the symbols carved on there? They’re prayers, they’re curses. Bad luck follows that thing around. The ship it was placed on to come here capsized, killing the crew. The wreckage floated around the Bay of Biscay until a Scottish steamer hauled it ashore,” he glances up at the stone. “It was dragged the rest of the way by tugboats”.  
Steve shivers, though he isn’t cold.  
“This is what a curse feel like, remember how it feels,” he presses the palms of his hands to Steve’s shoulders, broad and warm in the setting sun. “Remember and stay the hell away”.  
Steve shivers again and nods his head.  
“Good. C’mon, I got someone I want you to meet”.  
They walk along the water's edge, the way lit by the waning moon. Bukavac guides the way to a narrow set of stairs that lead down to the water, the stone slippery with mud and algae.  
“These are Waterman Stairs. Used to be a working river, ships up and down all day offloading goods, which were brought up causeways or the stairs”.  
He trots down the steps and Steve follows slowly. The tide is low and the Thames laps softly against the black earth. Bukavac walks up to the waters, crouching down to hold his hand just over the surface.  
“Hello, Thames,” he says gently, as if speaking to a nervous animal. “This is Stevie”.  
The water laps at his fingers and he runs his fingers under the surface. He glances around at Steve.  
“Come say hello,” he says quietly.  
Steve squats down beside him and holds his hand out.  
“Hello Thames,” he says softly. The water licks at his fingers, cold and black.  
“He doesn’t talk, hasn’t for a long time. Not since The Great Stink”.  
“The what?” Steve asks, water leaking into his boots.  
“1858. London was the busiest city in the world, the population tripled, sewers flowed directly into the him, outfall from factories and slaughterhouses,” he glances over at Steve to see if he has snatched his hand out of the water. He looks back at Bukavac, fingers trailing in the cold water. Good kid. “Then there was cholera and pockets of methane exploding in the sewers, and what did they do about it?” he looks back down at the black water. “Dumped hundreds of tons of lime on him”.  
Bukavac shakes his head.  
“Never recovered?” Steve murmurs quietly. Bukavac shakes his head and gets to his feet.  
“Good to see you, Old Man,” he says to the river. “You keep an eye on this one, won’t you?”  
The water sloshes at him. Steve straightens up.  
“Bucky, what’s going on?”  
Bukavac widens his eyes as he steps back to the Waterman Stairs.  
“Nothing,” he says quickly.  
Steve follows him, jaw set, and that’s never a good sign.  
“Bucky, I’m serious. Are you..” he hesitates, his mouth dropping open. “Are you leaving? Is that why you’re doing all this?”  
He steps closer, lifts his hands to Bukavac’s shoulders but doesn’t touch him.  
“Did I do something wrong?” he pleads.  
Bukavac can’t ignore the tone in his voice and pulls him into a hug, cradling the curve of his skull in his hand. Steve grips the thick cloth of his jacket, pulling it taut.  
“I’m not going anywhere, I promise,” Bukavac whispers.  
“Then why are you doing this? If you’re not leaving, why are you showing me all this?”  
Bukavac shushes him, the Thames sloshes cold water over their feet companionably.  
After too long, Bukavac speaks.  
“The whole time I was in that base, chained to that table,” he says slowly, “all I could think about was you, in the middle of a fuckin’ war with no one to watch your stupid ass”. He swallows and holds on tighter. “Don’t get me wrong, I also thought a lot about killing the fuckers that put me there. But mostly it was you,” he lowers his hands to frame Steve's face, holding him steady.  
“I did something stupid, and you gotta live with that”.  
Steve shakes his head. “It’s okay, Buck”.  
Bukavac shakes his head.  
“I’m not saying you’ll end up like me. But I ain’t done a great job of teaching you the things you might need to know”.  
Steve wraps his arms tightly around the Demons waist.  
“We’ll be okay, Bucky,” he says quietly.  
“Yeah, but it’d make me feel better if you had something. If things go south”.  
Steve flinches when another wave of water washes over their feet. Bukavac chuckles.  
“Yeah, Old Man,” he looks down at their sodden boots.  
“If things go south,” Steve murmurs. “Alright, if it makes you feel better”.  
Bukavac leads him over to the stairs, arm across his back. They climb the steps and start walking alongside the river towards Blackfriars. 

__The last of the sunlight fades and they walk in moonlight. Bukavac keeps a hand on Steve's shoulder, guiding him along the paved stone walkway. They stop at London Bridge.  
“This ain’t the first London bridge,” Bukavac says cheerfully. “Won’t be the last, neither”.  
They pause to look at the granite arches.  
“This one has been here a hundred years, the one before it six hundred years. That was somethin’ else. A stone bridge with a drawbridge in the middle and they built fuckin’ shops on it”.  
Steve bursts out laughing at that.  
“Seriously, Buck?” he chuckles.  
“Yup, over two hundred, all smashed up together one on top of the other, seven stories high in places, looming over the road so people below never saw sunlight. And a public latrine that emptied straight out onto the river. Took an hour to walk across”.  
Bukavac leans on the iron railings and points to the southern side of the river.  
“Over there was where they displayed the severed heads of traitors to the crown. They boiled them and dunked them in tar to preserve them, didn’t look a thing like a human head by the time they stuck ‘em on a pike”.  
He straightens up and continues walking, after a moment Steve follows. They follow the river past Old Billingsgate to the white walled castle on the banks of the river. The stone gleams silver in the moon's light.  
“The Tower of London,” Bukavac rolls his eyes, “Not very tower-like”.  
Steve nods in agreement, the tower is low and wide, surrounded by defensive walls.  
“It looks like a prison,” Steve comments.  
_Poor boys ___  
“Yeah, poor boys,” Bukavac agrees.  
Steve makes a questioning sound, and Bukavac points to the tower.  
“A lot of blood spilt here, old Gods died on this land,” he looks up at the white stone towers with something like contempt. “Land remembers. It soaks up the blood and the hate and the terror. Stuff like that leaves a residue, some places are slick with old blood,” he glances over at Steve. “Watch where you’re stepping, Stevie”.  
Steve looks down and sees a large black shape on the ground at his feet. He takes a step back. There is a movement in the air around them, and several large birds with greasy black feathers settle in the trees around them. Bukavac puts his hand to his chest and bows to them.  
“The Ravens of Bendigeidfran, who guard the head of the dead king under the hill. This is Stevie”.  
The raven's eye them silently.  
“Do they talk,” Steve asks quietly.  
Bukavac grins at him.  
“Hey, guys,” he says to the assembled flock. “Nevermore!”  
There is a chorus of mutters and rumbles.  
“Fuck you, Bukavac,” croaks one of the birds before flapping its wings and disappearing into the shadows. The others follow and Bukavac chuckles to himself.  
“They’re smart, yeah,” he says, wiping his eyes. “But they’re not oracles or sources of great wisdom”.  
He puts a cold hand on Steve’s back and leads him away from the tower.  
“C’mon, it’s getting late. Early start an’ all that”. 

____Steve slips and arm around his waist, and it’s the easiest thing in the world to drape an arm across his shoulders in response. They walk away from the river and north to Cheapside and see the dome of St Paul's ahead. Bukavac points to it.  
“One last thing, Stevie. You ever been in there?”  
“The church? No, I haven’t,” he says.  
“Don’t,” Bukavac says flatly. “The whole thing is a Demon Trap. Five chains encircling the dome and a chunk of rock from Solomon’s Temple,” he glances at Steve. “You know who Solomon is, right?”  
Steve nods. “It was in my Ma’s book. The one I used to find you,” he glances at Bukavac. “He was the first to enslave Demons, wasn’t he?”  
Bukavac shrugs. “Not the first, but the most successful. He studied the Art and shared his knowledge. Made it impossible for us to escape or refuse. He was the first to bind us to this realm, to really control us”.  
Bukavac glares at the church.  
“And maybe you’d be okay, maybe it wouldn’t affect you,” he pulls Steve a little closer, as if he could plant himself between the dumb punk and the rest of all creation. Maybe that is, in the end, what he is really doing. “Maybe not. Don’t risk it”.  
Steve tightens his grip around Bukavac’s waist.  
“Sure thing, Buck”.  
They walk north through the silent streets. In the morning they’ll be shipping out to France to seek out the first of the Hydra bases, days of skulking through countryside and nights of shivering in fox holes.  
Bukavac doesn’t complain, he’d follow the dumb fuckin’ punk to the very end. 


End file.
